Putting up his dogs, he strolled about the streets for a while, the displays in the shop windows holding his attention. Men passed him on the sidewalks, singly and in groups, and men accompanied by women muffled to the ears in rich furs. But they paid him no heed. Now and then he saw a man clad in parka and moccasins but for the most part they were dressed as they would have dressed in Seattle or Vancouver. “Dude camp,” muttered MacShane, and for the first time in his life he knew that he was lonely. He grinned at the realization of it. He--Burr MacShane, who had mushed more lone trails than any man in the North, was lonely in the biggest camp in the North. One hour of Nome had accomplished what eight long years in the Arctic solitudes had failed to accomplish--it had made him long for his kind. A door opened, and from a glittering palace of fun two men stepped, and passed on down the street. Attracted by the sound of music, MacShane entered the place and found himself in a spacious room the floor of which was dotted with small tables at which men and women were seated, eating and drinking. Upon a raised platform at the rear an orchestra was rendering music. To the right, a long bar ran the full length of the room. Men stood at this bar, each with his foot resting upon a polished brass rail, and poured their liquor from cut glass decanters that glittered in the blaze of light. Here was something he understood. While not in any sense a drinking man, MacShane’s visits to civilization had always been celebrated with more or less whiskey. He enjoyed the exhilaration of it. It was part of the game. “All this camp needs is wakin’ up,” he decided, and crossing to the bar, smote it loudly with his fist. “Surge up, you trail-hounds an’ have a drink!” he roared, in a voice that carried to the far corners of the room. But, there was no crowding to the bar. The orchestra played on, and the men and women at the tables stared. One or two snickered. The men at the bar turned on him in frank astonishment. Some of these also laughed. The linen-clad bartender opposite him stared at the gold sack that lay upon the bar before MacShane, and from the rear a man, also linen-clad, hurried toward him. “Cut that out!” he ordered, curtly. MacShane was bewildered. He felt as though he had been plunged suddenly into cold water. “What do you mean?” he managed to ask. “I mean you lay off the rough stuff, or out you go--see? We don’t stand for that, here!” Before MacShane could reply, a large man detached himself from a group at the bar and stepped to his side. The man’s eyes were twinkling, and his lips smiled. The linen-clad one accorded him deference. MacShane noted that the steel-grey eyes of the big man hardened momentarily as he addressed the other. “You go back, Strake, before you start something. Leave him to me.” “Certainly, Mr. Smith. It’s all right, Mr. Smith,” the man rubbed his palms together, and slipped away.